Awaiting Your Transformation?

Questionable Beginnings?

Start Where You Are

The edge of an empty, near-abandoned flowerpot doesn't appear to be an auspicious spot for a transformation. Nonetheless, the emerald and gold gem on that edge encases what one day will be a monarch butterfly. The pot sits on the bottom shelf among pots that have green plants thriving in them. The empty pot was set aside and forgotten in the maze of the daily must-do list each of us has.

 Who knows what made the no-longer-hungry caterpillar decide this was its launchpad into its next incarnation? Perhaps it was convenient. Perhaps it was simply there. Perhaps the caterpillar procrastinated until no choice was left except to stop and spin.

Stop and spin it did. And here it is on this New Year's Day awaiting its transformation. When it begins emerging, it will still be in the empty pot on the bottom shelf, which doesn't at first glance appear to include everything it might need to thrive. But all those things—moisture, greenery, sunshine, and nectar from flowers—are nearby.

When it emerges, the butterfly will start where it is. Today, whether you're on the edge of something or maybe not in the best circumstances, you can choose to be like the monarch. When it emerges and as you emerge, regardless of your situation or surroundings, you can start where you are. You can begin. Your personal nectar awaits to nourish you and send you on your journey into 2019.

Balancing the Scales of Grief and Joy

Your Grief and Joy Are

Holding Hands in Your Heart

Each year the Compassionate Friends hold a worldwide Candle Lighting Memorial service on the second Sunday in December. I am honored to have spoken at the last several services in Vero Beach, Florida. In my absence this past December 9, Gina Wattles was kind enough to share my words. The December service is often the only time during the holiday season that we who have suffered great loss pause and reflect on loss and love. My reflection on loss, love, and joy follows.

Balancing the Scales of Grief and Joy

Those of us who have suffered great loss have that day—the day life changed. The day that reminds us once a year that we grieve the loss of our child, grandchild, sibling, or other loved one. Sure as clockwork, the day we most wish to avoid comes back, whether it be one year or thirty years since it signified our greatest loss.

Each of us approaches the day with our own set of fears, longing, and dreams that the day had never happened. Each of us also manages the best we can. We grieve, yet we celebrate life; we hold our memories close, wishing we had more. We might plant a tree, sit on a beach, look at photos, or reminisce about our loved one's quirks and personality. How ever we spend that day, each of us marks its significance, even if that means hiding under the covers until the day ends.

November 2, 1986, is that day for me. At 1:47 p.m., my darling Alexa took her last breath. Often, especially in the years of my fresh grief, as the day neared, I was full of fear, projecting my thoughts back to that worst day. I found that planning for the day eased some of my profound grief and fear. I planted many trees in the last thirty-two years. I said many prayers. I reminisced with family and friends. I remembered my sweet child with love and longing.

Since that day, much has happened to remind me that although the signal event in my life was Alexa's illness and death, my life is much more than loss and grief. I have learned to embrace the moments that transcend the sadness of loss. I have learned to embrace the moments that remind me life has much to celebrate, to laugh about, to smile about; although at times, I still cry about that cruelest of events.

Still, November 2 doesn't go away. As sure as the seasons, it approaches me every fall. I don't fear it as I once did, but I don’t welcome it.

This year on November 2, I woke early and for just a few moments I didn't remember it was the day. It was simply a day. But like rain in a Florida summer, the date crept into my consciousness. Enough years have passed since that first November 2 that I wasn't crushed. Instead I felt more of a quiet acceptance.

Later that morning, my daughter Tarah called so my two-year-old grandson Shawn could FaceTime with me. They live in New England and it's how we stay close during the long months we don't see each other.

During our chat, Shawn decided he wanted to make Nana comfortable. In the photos Tarah sent, Shawn has "me" (the phone) nestled in pillows and covered with a blanket with just my face peeking out. In one photo he sits and talks to me. In the most precious photo, he is lying down next to the phone. Shawn made sure Nana was snuggled and held close by the pillows, blanket, and his darling self. The sweetness of Shawn's actions brought an indescribable joy to my heart. Shawn had no way of knowing that day is my saddest day. Shawn had no way of knowing he brought so much joy to me on a day that often brings so much pain.

Snuggling with Shawn via FaceTime and feeling his love and care made my heart sing. November 2 is not usually a day that my heart sings. But it did that morning, and in spite of it being a day of loss, Shawn's little heart carried me; it held me throughout the day.

And there it was: The perfect juxtaposition of grief and joy. I am again reminded that the two go together. Alexa was one of my greatest joys; thus, her loss is my greatest grief. There is no way to separate the two. What we lose matters so much because of the joy and love the life once held for us. As we go forward in our journey of loss, it's important to never lose sight of the joy our loved one gave us. It's also important to never lose sight of the joy that still awaits us. We must continue to be open to receiving and embracing joy, just as Shawn embraced me that November morning.

As Kahlil Gibran wrote in his classic poem on "Joy and Sorrow" in his book, The Prophet:

"When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

"When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

Gibran knew our sorrow and our joy are forever entwined. I agree.

As Shawn showed me November 2, on the one hand we have our grief and on the other hand we have our joy. Sometimes, if we pause long enough and look deep into our hearts, we can see that our grief and our joy are holding hands. I know that's how my heart looked on November 2.

Some Plants (and People) Do Quite Well When Left Alone

Leave It Alone!

Keikis are clones of orchid plants.

Put that person, place, or thing aside, leave it alone, and it might turn into something of beauty all on its own.

A mini-me growing from your arm or leg is not possible in the human world (yet), but mini-me growth often happens in the orchid world. Orchid growers know about the keiki (kee-kee), which is a clone—an additional plant that grows on a Dendrobium orchid cane or a flowering stem of a Phalaenopsis and some other orchids. I’m not an orchid expert, so I don’t know exactly why this happens. In my limited experience, it’s often another chance at life for a neglected, soon-to-die mother plant.

I overheard an accomplished grower say he places keikis in a basket until they mature enough to pot or mount. Because he’s a pro, he probably has separate baskets and his keikis have name tags, so he knows what they are. My method involves tossing random Dendrobium keikis into a plastic basket and abandoning them for a year—or longer.

Leaving things alone to thrive (or not) in their own way is not my MO. I named myself Interfering Mom years ago because I pick, I advise, I threaten, I beg. I offer the most helpful suggestions, but most of the people I am certain would benefit most from my advice ignore me. I know about being ignored, but not so much about ignoring.

However, I ignored a lot the last several months. I stayed inside because of the brutal heat and my flower and herb gardens are an overgrown, weedy mass of plants. I also wrestled with some physical limitations since late May, which presented even more opportunities to ignore growing as well as non-growing things. During that time, I focused only on what was important—working, eating, sleeping, meditating. I left most other things alone.

Now that the daily heat blasts of the Florida summer and my physical limitations have started to diminish, I find myself outside again, poking through the overgrown weeds and dehydrated potted plants, looking for what living things, like me, made it through another summer. I neglected (ignored) so much over the previous six months that I had to reorder my patio and its nearly ninety potted plants. I moved some plants, and behind a shelf I spied my hanging basket of abandoned keikis. I was stunned to see that many no longer were keikis—some were plants and one had a bloom spike. I stopped ignoring the basket and a few days later, the plant had bright, beautiful blooms.

Surprise gift of Dendrobium blossoms

I don’t recommend neglect, even though I know some plants (and people) do better when they are left alone to grow on their own. More than a few plants didn’t make it during those neglectful months (but all the people who rejected my interfering have done just fine). I have fewer plants than I did at the beginning of spring. But much of what I have has thrived in spite of me. It’s a good lesson when I see these blooms to remind myself that I don’t always have to preen, pull, pamper, and push—in the human world as well as the plant world. Sometimes, when I leave things alone, they grow and blossom and turn into something of beauty all on their own.

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Leave it alone does not work with many things in our lives, of course. It is not a great idea to leave our electric bill or mortgage payment alone, for example. Choose wisely when deciding when to “interfere” and when to “leave it alone.”